What Used To Be
by soulwriter5
Summary: This used to be one of my best classes until she transferred into it." Just another story about the used to be's and the could've been's in the lives of our young lovers.
1. One

_She's at it again! Haha. Yeah, I'm back. Read and enjoy with no promise of end. _

Disclaimer: I don't own nothin' offica, I swear it isn't mine, I swear. haha.

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**Chapter one.**

This used to be one of my best classes until she transferred into it. I never had a problem paying focusing until she got here. Taking notes off the projector screen wasn't a strenuous task until my eyes started training themselves on her figure. If I were of sound mind, I might realize that I really ought to be listening to the teacher. Common sense should tell me that my grade might start suffering. However, it seems as though common sense and sound mind have escaped me, coincidentally, as soon as she walked through the door.

Spencer Carlin. Student body president. Blonde, blue eyes, rocking body. Need I really say more? You may not think so, but man, if I could go on about her all day, I wouldn't hesitate. She's one of the most amazing people anyone could ever come across, the sad part being that most people don't know they've come across her. They've never experienced her smile, her laughter, her ease the way those who are close to her have. That's the sad part about high school. She's student body president because people know she's efficient, not because they like her. They've had pre-determined views of her since we walked through the door freshman year. It's a shame they'll never get the opportunity to see her at her best, mostly because they wouldn't even acknowledge it if it were to occur. I know. I know these things because I used to be one of those people. I thank every star in heaven that I'm not anymore. You know the saying, "You don't really know someone until you work with them"? It's not just a saying. Let's start from the beginning, yes?

_One year earlier._

"Hey Ashley, you on?"

Brown hair, brown eyes, rock star complex. I'm just your basic teenager. Nothing particularly special. Ashley Davies is the name. Daughter of a punk-rocker-turned-insurance-agent (don't ask how that happened, I still don't even fully understand) and a bra saleswoman. The upside being that I'm incredibly gifted with a natural music inclination, and I never have to shop for bras.

The downside is that I have to work to put a few extra bucks to put in my pocket. It's not so bad though. There are worse places in the world than Garfield's Bar and Grill. I love my job. It's not always easy, it's not even always worth it, but it's usually fun. I work with the most infuriatingly amazing people on the planet. I can't really describe them any better than that. Take Jenny, for example:

"Hey Ashley, you on?"

"I will be in five minutes," I reply.

"Okay, awesome, then I'm going to see what I have to do in order to get the hell out of here."

That's another thing you should probably know about me. They call me a "dying breed". You know those weird people who actually get excited about going to work, love doing their jobs and always try to put their co-workers before them? Yeah. I'm one of them. I blame my parents' constant (and intravenous) sex/professionalism talks. I was seven when they started drilling me. The thing most of my co-workers don't realize is that I really am only like this at work. School? I get by. Social life? Existent. Love life? Fail. See, I have this uncanny ability to make people fall in love with me, while I can't return the favor.

But that's neither here nor there.

Reaching into my purse for my apron, I make my way towards the kitchen.

"Hi Chris!" My voice has jumped a few octaves, allowing my excitement to slip out. He's stopped asking me what I'm so excited about, they all have. Life, as a general principle, excites me, and after a year and a half, they finally understand that.

"Hey Ash, how are you JB?" He responds, nodding his head in my direction.

JB. Jailbait. My infamous nickname. When I started working at Garfield's, I had just hit the 16 and a half mark, successfully making me the youngest one in the restaurant. They never failed to remind me.

At this point, I've reached the manager's door, my picture's still up on the door from Halloween when I came to work in my costume. I give the door a slight rap. It cracks open and I grab the handle before the opportunity is lost. Looking inside, I can see that only the kitchen manager is in.

"Hey Joe, can I see your card?"

"Sure kiddo. Hey, did you see my Red Sox kick ass the other night?" Ugh. Joe's a Bostonian. Not that I have anything against Boston. I've got cousins up there, but my grams is from New York and well, you can guess which games we watched together when I was a kid.

"Yeah, I saw, and then I saw my Yankees take them two-for-three games in the conference." I rebut. He waves me off. I love Joe; he's a cool old man.

"P.S. Who's on today? Judy or Lina?"

"Both," he answers, "they're at table 60 having a front-of-house manager's meeting."

"Thanks Joe!" and I'm off.

After clocking in and walking by 60, a silent measure of communication learned in restaurants (yes, we do have a secret language) that let Judy and Lina know I was here without interrupting, I was back up at the host stand.

There wasn't much to do, it was a Tuesday afternoon. Silverware, bathroom checks, and spot sweeps had been part of Jenny's side work, and therefore, finished. I would do them all again in 30 minutes, but until then, I was stuck twiddling my thumbs.

That is, of course, before a shadow briefed my line a vision. A shadow meant a guest was coming in. A guest coming in meant the doors needed to be held open. I rushed forward to do so. Normally, we only have to open the one door, but remember that I'm not one of those people who does things normally. I have this thing where I like to open the first door, then stretch the short distance and (while using my left hand to keep the first open) use my right foot as a wedge for the second door. Most people are impressed. It's not that hard, but it makes them think I'm going to great lengths to provide good service, and as long as they're happy, I'll let them think whatever they want.

Getting back to the shadow that briefed my vision and the guest that was now walking in. I hadn't, until that point, cared who it was who was coming through the door. I hadn't, until that point, dropped my jaw. That changed when_ did _see.

"Spencer?" I knew my voice echoed my surprise. Sure, we knew who each other were. We did go to school together after all. We'd had a class together in our sophomore year, where she sat behind me. And this year, I think we might have, but my schedule was shifted and we didn't.

"Hey, how are you?" Ever the polite one, her voice let slip nothing but the calm coolness that she emanated at all times. That's why most people didn't like her. This was the only part of her they saw.

"Good, what are you doing here?" It might've been rude, looking back, but you've got to understand… this was _Spencer Carlin_. She wasn't rich, she wasn't snobby, but she always seemed to come off that way. Garfield's… well, Garfield's was your everyday restaurant; it seemed too normal for even the presence of Spencer Carlin. You might wonder why I keep using her full name. She was like one of those great authors you always learn about in school, it seems wrong to be informal with the use of name.

"I'm here for a job interview," she replied.

And just like that my heart stopped beating.


	2. Two

My class is unusually quiet today. Well, maybe _unusually_ isn't the correct word to use, since we are taking a test and _typically_ people are indeed quiet during those. It doesn't really matter how you want to take the utter nonsense that mind just vomited, but it is important to note the silence. Why? Because it used to really bother me. Really, really. Silence makes me think, and as awkward as this sounds, I hate when I have to sit and think. Though life, as a general principle, excites me, it took me a long time before I was able to function this way. Before, I used to act out the way I was feeling, I would shut people out, focus on the negative things in my life. Now, well now I don't. But those negative thoughts, as many of you may know, don't exactly go away. Silence brings them back. I hate silence.

Suddenly there's a small sneeze from across the room, and from memory, I know exactly who's that sneeze that is. My eyes dart over to the source and find her cheeks have turned the slight shade of pink that they tend to get when she unintentionally is made the center of attention.

"Hey! Knock it off, Carlin." My teacher reacts. He's an idiot. Smartest one I know. He knows the ups and downs, inside and out of his subject, and lacks the ability to teach it. He tries to make up for that with wit and charm and humor. They usually work.

I look back over to her just in time for her head to turn and her eyes to lock with mine. I'm not sure the expression she was wearing a second ago, but right now all I can see is the million dollar smile she's flashing me.

_One Year Ago._

"_Hey, hey, hey, let's make some good ol' days tonight!" _

Man, I love this song! Really though, I did before this, but I don't think I've ever liked it this much. Cuz right now, I really, really freaking love this song. I love singing into the silverware at the top of my lungs, I love my back up air guitarist (who's incidentally using a broom), and I love that she's right here next to me, singing at the top of _her_ lungs too.

Who'd of thought it? Really? Spencer Carlin. The Junior Class President. Is here, at Garfield's. Singing weird country songs and oldies, with me, you're resident GDI. (That's what my dad used to call me when I was little and didn't want to play dolls with the other girls; it means "God Damn Individual").

Amazing.

I'm surprised I'm actually able to form coherent sentences, much less remember all the words to this song; she's stand way too close, or maybe not close enough. I can't decide, or maybe I'm not ready to. She's having this kind of effect on me, I've never felt it before, and it's not something I know how to react to.

Sometimes I wonder if maybe she feels it too. It's a magnet, like I always know when she's coming, when she's standing near me. I can feel it. It's like being on a high, like being light-headed and giddy.

Especially right now, because apparently I can't remember _all_ the words to the song, and I've just sincerely screwed one up. From her place, only inches away from my right shoulder, she looks over at me and for a second, we both stop breathing as our gazes lock.

And then our giggles erupt into the air.

See? It's weird because it's so easy. Yes, when she touches me my whole body feels like it's on fire. Yes, when she says my name I feel my heart flutter. Yes, when she's near me I have a problem with motor functions, breathing, and thinking clearly.

That's probably not healthy, but what the hell, I'm young, I'll get better.

_One Year Later._

It was like that for the entire time that we worked together. All of five months. Possibly the best of my life. I had a good job, a great best friend, I was doing well in school, and everyday afterschool, I got to hang out with _her._

For five months we shared furtive glances, confusing even to ourselves; inside jokes became our specialties', secret non-verbal languages were created, even ones that stumped our co-workers, we stole touches, smiles and, in five months, she managed to do the impossible.

She stole my heart.


	3. Three

Okay, so we can all cop to it right now, most of us have a MySpace. Don't lie. It's all good. And most of us with a MySpace have participated in one of those funny little bulletin survey things. Remember that one question:

How's your life going?

Yeah. Well, right now, if prompted, I'd just mark "unknown". I have a question mark in my head, in my heart. I have no idea what's going on.

Well, that's not completely true. I know what I'm doing; I just don't know what I'm doing. I joined the chess club; she's in the chess club. I'm joined the photography club, she's in the photography. I'm volunteering at the local elementary school, so is she. I'll be joining the key club soon, I'm praying (and that's saying something because I'm not religious) she's not in that too. She's the Student Body President for god's sake! What the hell does she need all of these extracirc's for anyway? She's already on the track team, the cross country team, StuCo, etc.

And I know you're wondering why I'm in so many clubs. You have a right to wonder. The only clubs I was known to frequent up until last year were the kind with loud music and lots of alcohol. Up until last year my dad was in a band that had tour with a minor record group. He wasn't around much when I was a kid anyway, I knew it was because he was working long hours at the office, but I also knew it was because he didn't want to come home and fight with my mom. See, my mom liked the booze a little too much, if you know what I mean. And since my dad was never home, I got the bear-brunt of her angry-drunkenness. Well, finally, my dad says he's done with the long hours, he's done only seeing me for fifteen minutes, at the most, in the mornings, and coming to home after I've gone to bed, to find his wife passed out on the couch. So he came home. Two years later, in 8th grade, he picked up and left again. With the band. He said it was so he could afford to put me through college. But while he was gone, my mom hit the booze even harder, and I became the one who tried to avoid going home.

He's back though, been back for about a year, he's definitely helping my mom. She doesn't drink so much anymore, she's focusing more on her work and him. And the college fund? Gone. Spent on the bills that piled up will he was gone. But its okay, all that means is I'm on the same page as all the other kids in my graduating class.

That's another thing you ought to know about me. I _will _graduate. I _am_ going to do something with my life. Probably in the music business. It really doesn't matter, whatever I do, I _won't _become my mother, I _won't _become like some of my dirt bag cousins who are rotting in jail because they fucked up one to many times. That _won't _be me.

So I'm joining a bunch of clubs. Looks good on the resume, you know? And that brings us to our current situation. Hall decorations. Yeah, I know, that's StuCo territory, and you're thinking… "Aren't you trying to avoid her?" Well, yes and no. It's not so much that I'm trying to avoid her, as much as it's not healthy for my heart to be beating as fast as it does when she's around.

Today has not been good in that area. Earlier she tried to stick a dollar in my shirt, I can't remember why, but maybe that's because my brain malfunctioned as soon as she reached for my shirt. Then we started arguing, like we always do, about the elections coming up. I actually could give a shit less about it, but its fun to watch her get riled up, sexy even. Not the point though, the point is that someone walked by and said we fight like an old married couple, and she pointed on that I'd be the husband…like she'd thought about it or something. But right now, well, this is just not usual.

She's staring at me. Like full out. And I'm staring right back. Gazes locked, it's like we're both looking for something that may have just been there the whole time. She's reading me, I can tell. She's digging. For what… I don't exactly know, I don't even think she knows.

Geez, have I ever mentioned how blue her eyes were? Amazingly so. Like, Caribbean ocean blue. It's like, at any moment, were I to lose firm grip on reality, I might get swept away into the vast serenity –

"Hey!"

Was that a voice?

"Hello!"

I see the start in her eyes and I know that she's caught off guard. It seems as though we'd forgotten we were in a cafeteria full of our peers.

"Yeah?" She's turn to Rachel, owner of the interrupting voice. She's a lot nicer about it than I would've been, had I the ability to find my voice.

"You guys were like, staring each other down." She doesn't ask, but there's a question in her voice.

Spencer looks back at me, "I can't help it," she responds to Rachel, though keeping my gazing, "if Ashley can't get enough of this, I have that effect on a lot of people."

And just like that she plays it off. Like always.

"Oh please Carlin, the only effect you have on people is being stuffy." I shoot back.

"So not true Davies, I have loads of fun."

"Yeah, when you're with me." And I've lead us back onto dangerous territory, she knows it and I do. But before the tension can come to fruition –

"And me!" Rachel pipes in. Again.

Dinner past, we're all back to work on the hallways. I'm on the ground, cutting up paper for the "dead" tree. See, our theme was movie genres, classic for LA, I know, but what the hell. Anyway, I seem to be the only one who doesn't mind the cold, hard tile. Maybe that's because I've forgotten all about it. Having her in perfect view, from twenty feet away, has apparently had that effect on me. She's sitting on a scaffold, attaching something to something, I don't really know. I'm not watching what she's doing as much as how she's doing it. Her body, languid, but solid; firm, yet flexible, makes for more than enough of a show. And the fact that she keeps looking over here doesn't hurt.

Does she know I'm watching? Can she feel me staring? Does it bother her?

At this point its eight o'clock at night, I'd been here since eight this morning. My body is aching, my head is spinning, and my heart is thumping. Really, really loud.

Or maybe that's just the music the sophomores turned on.

_I still hear your voice_

_When you sleep next to me. _

_I still feel your touch in my dreams._

_Forgive me my weakness, but I don't know why,_

_Without you, it's hard to survive._

I feel the huge smile break out onto my face. I love this song! My lips have started moving to the words, and I look up to see her body moving rhythmically, but her eyes diverting anywhere but to mine.

'_Cause every time we touch I get this feeling, _

_And every time we kiss, I swear I can fly._

_Can't you feel my heart beat fast, I want this to last,_

_Need you by my side._

'_Cause every time we touch I feel the static,_

_And every time we kiss, I reach for the sky._

_Can't you hear my heart beat slow, I can't let you go,_

_Need you in my life._

She can't look at me. Why can't she look at me? Why, when that's all that she's been doing allll day, can she not make eye contact with me?

The instrumentals strike, and suddenly, quickly so do her eyes. For half a second, they meet my own, but it only took that half a second to read the nervousness that played across her face.

What is going on?


End file.
